Sun At High Noon
by Racheakt
Summary: Secrets Brought to light. Conspiracy and encroaching war. Will the rtaces be reconciled or will the world be bathed in flames- when the masqurade is broken?


A/N The inspiration for this story came from a verity of sources, first and foremost being 'Twilight' by Stephanie Meyer, and it's sequels. Secondly, you may blame boredom.

Third, you can blame Ice Cream, the substance that drives this plot and gives all life meaning.

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_**Sun At High Noon**_

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In Nevada there is a place not listed on any map, not found in the phone directory, and geo satellite footage carefully never acknowledges. It is a relatively unassuming five square miles in the middle of desert. A series of short hills provide line-of-sight cover from prying eyes, not that it is particularly needed- the compound is as unremarkable as the surrounding landscape. A half-dozen squat, concrete warehouses huddle under the protective shadow of the rocks. From their size- and the piles of loose shale and gravel nearby –it is easy to suppose this is an abandoned mine, long cleaned of any useful ores. Utterly unremarkable. There is little to see- very little at all.

This is only half true.

A path- nobody would call it a road- snaked it's way over the desert. Rarely traveled, it was so faint one had to know to look for it or it would be lost in the sagebrush.

Today there wasn't a cloud in the sky- and the temperature was peaking at a hundred degrees in the shade. And today a truck thundered over that invisible path, dusty and growing dustier as it kicked up a tremendous cloud of grit. Blue paint turned a sullen shade of gray.

The truck slowed slightly then came to a sudden stop- tires sliding on the gravel. The man that emerged was tall, lanky, and moved with a purpose driven with a clarity of thought- a mind honed to a single sharp point. Sweat stood on his brow almost at once upon contact with the sweltering heat. It was like stepping into an oven.

He didn't wait for his driver- paused just long enough to key the door open, rolling back the side of one of the buildings enough to allow clearance. Once inside the burning of the sun and the heat were both relived and he breathed a sigh of relief.

…

As the elevator descended the man took a steadying moment to compose himself. It was a rare moment of excitement that he allowed himself to get flustered so- but this was an occasion ! He clutched the case in his right hand, held it up as if he could draw out the substance within and examine the formula directly. In his left he held his briefcase loosely- papers, progress spreads, lucky pen -but his right clutched the smaller case, and the precious vials it contained, with white-knuckle intensity.

Drake Candle was not a man given to habitual impulsive action. But the decoding sequence was completed at last. That meant that the serious testing could begin.

The elevator doors opened and Candle stepped through without seeing them. The beefy security guard smiled and greeted him- McMadden, he remembered. He tossed a 'mornin'' over his shoulder as he keyed open the first set of airtight containment doors. His thumbprint was required for the second.

Inside a prevailing sense of stark utility. They called this place the catacombs. He had always thought the name rather appropriate. After all were catacombs not a place where things of value were hidden along with the dead? Everything was white and sterile- it was as if there was no life in anything, now or ever, bathed under the harsh glare of synthetic lighting.

Doctor Gerard met him halfway to his office. A short, balding man with a rather fetching goatee, graying at the edges now. Drake envied him the goatee but not the baldness.

"Mister Candle-

Candle held out the case without a word, "Get this analyzed, first and third, but hold off on the second. I want to be present for that one."

"Ah, yes sir!" Gerard took the case and fell into step behind Candle, "I take it you are going down to see our guest?"

"Of course." Candle answered smoothly, "What made you think any differently?"

"N-nothing, not at all sir!"

Candle's mouth twisted in a faint smile, "Progress?"

The doctor shrugged, "She's responding well to treatments- plasma substitutes are holding up, it seems. But I still wouldn't go in the room with the little devil."

Candle fixed him with an unreadable look, "What about tissue reconstruction? The baths?"

"On schedule, sir."

"And specimens D-1 through D-4?"

The little man shuddered and looked ill, "No change, sir."

That stopped Candle a moment, and he considered the tiled floor pensively, "Hmm." One hand absently tapped a rhythm against his chest as he considered that.

"… Continue observations, I want to know of any new developments the moment they arise." He turned and strode down the hall, leaving the doctor in the wake of his long strides.

…

The container resembled a coffin- an irony not lost on the man gazing down at it. A tank, roughly seven feet long and three feet wide, built to the proportions of a human body, surrounded by a cage of titanium bars. Within the tank fluid stirred, completely covering the inert form within. The only sound was the gentle hiss of pumps as they fed the body fresh plasma.

'She' had the appearance of approximately two-thirds of a human torso with ragged edges and no limbs. She wasn't, of course, human, not by any imaginative stretch. No human could have survived what she- it, he reminded himself –what it had. And they had brought it in the damage had been far more extensive.

Candle brought his fingers together, steepled as he considered the data available.

They didn't breathe- or didn't require to do so often. Their general body tissues vaguely resembled crystal in some ways- basic structure and such- originally they had toyed with the idea of a silicon base. Very durable. At full health they would likely be inhumanly strong.

Yet the chemical composition was difficult to distinguish from humans.

Candle was startled from his musing by a sudden movement from within the coffin. The torso twitched, a mouth with half a jaw opened and the spine arced in a silent scream.

She was awake again. Candle rubbed the bridge of his nose- it, not she, he reminded himself. Mustn't think of as 'she' for sanity's sake. Awake again.

The pain he could only imagine. No, not even imagine. He didn't know the depths of that agony- and likely never would.

There were no painkillers to give-

Deep underground, in a private research facility, Drake Candle watched helplessly as the creature, girl, woman, whatever it was… writhed in agony- and tried to bear it with her.

And wondered what form the end result of all this would take.

It was just the beginning.

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A/N

Sould I continue? y/n?

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End file.
